


Complete

by dhyanshiva



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aromantic Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Canon Related, Character Study, Gen, Headcanon, Pride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24569905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhyanshiva/pseuds/dhyanshiva
Summary: Sherlock reflects on the things, the people that make him who he is and finds some comfort and reassurance in the process.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	Complete

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Pride 2020!
> 
> It's only recently, after another binge watch of the BBC adaptation that my interpretation of Sherlock as aro - ace began to cement itself in my mind. Perhaps it's due to a lens I choose to don - not rose tinted glasses, mind - but it is what it is.
> 
> Also, I disagree with the 'high functioning sociopath' title for several reasons, headcanon notwithstanding. It's something you'll realise soon enough but I thought I'd add the disclaimer here since it's been a point of contention for a long time.
> 
> I wrote 'Complete' in an attempt to comfort myself and after much deliberation, I've chosen to publish it, flawed though it is.
> 
> Thank you for giving it the time of day!
> 
> [As with all my other work, there's a playlist for this too!]
> 
> Much love,  
> Dhyan x

The cut next to his brow stung but Sherlock tried to divert his focus elsewhere, clenching his hand so as not to reach up and touch it. Sat in the armchair, with a fire going and a hot drink in hand, one would think he was winding down for the night, relaxing. This couldn’t be further from the truth. He could feel each blow that his body had taken in that eerie room, remembered the look in John’s eyes as he’d done it, a shadow of which was in his glare as they sat in the room opposite one another now.

Soon, the conversation got awkward, strained and he didn’t quite know what to say, how to navigate it, so stuck to the facts of the matter. The nonchalance seemed to irk John, wind him up further but the last straw was the notification alert from his phone. A message. From Irene Adler. With that, John Watson let go of any pretences of calm and composure.

It took all his strength for the consulting detective to not flinch at the disbelief, the anger in John’s voice when he all but ordered Sherlock to respond to The Woman. It’d been like this from their introduction to the dominatrix, and he simply couldn’t understand why John didn’t see that he didn’t want _that_ with her. Or with anyone, really, as he’d told his former flatmate time and again. Yet, he brushed of John’s interruption and chose to focus on the fact that the man was distraught, at breaking point. This wasn’t the time to respond to a comment flung at him without a second thought. Seeing his best friend break down stirred something within him and in an uncharacteristic move, he put his arms around the smaller man, trying to comfort him. The only words he could muster were ‘ _It is what it is_ ’. And really, what more could be said?

Shutting the door behind John’s forlorn figure, Sherlock rested against the door for a moment, shaking imperceptibly. It wasn’t just the impact of drug deprivation, though. This was his emotions getting the better of him, something that happened very rarely, for he wasn’t one to let it cloud his judgement. Feeling weighed down, he made his way back to the trusty armchair, angling himself slightly to face the fireplace. That comment had triggered a train of thought the man had avoided for a long while.

The façade with Janine had forced him to come out of his comfort zone, act like he was ‘in love’ with her. It confused him, the concept of love, of romance, though the chemistry of it all was easy enough to comprehend. So, he played the part of an amicable boyfriend and the ruse had worked, unsurprisingly. People were so painfully predictable it was almost laughable. But now, sat here, left alone with his spiralling thoughts, he couldn’t find any humour in that notion.

His correspondence with Irene Adler was infrequent, sporadic and one sided. John’s incredulity at the fact that he wasn’t attracted to her in that way annoyed him, if nothing else. He admired her, there was no denying that. Her cunning and intellect meant he’d found someone to spar with and not become terribly bored and that in itself was intriguing. He was willing to indulge her in an exchange of wits, but when she’d asked him out to dinner, Sherlock recalled the flash of panic that rushed through him as she’d gripped his hand. He wasn’t oblivious to her intentions, not entirely, but knew that this proposition was something he wasn’t comfortable with. He couldn’t quite put it into words so resorted to trying to distract her, delay what appeared to be the inevitable. He’d been able to put aside his own discomfort and make use of her weakness, the way her pulse had elevated, the dilation of her pupils. Her sentiments had betrayed her, given her away and Sherlock allowed himself to revel in that victory at the cost of being called unfeeling, cold and callous once again.

He’d gotten used to it by now but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It’s just that he chose not to devote his time to addressing any of it, give into the trap. It was too complicated for Sherlock Holmes. Now though, at long last, circumstance and solitude has forced him to introspect, to _understand_. First things first, ascribing a name, something tangible. Now, if he had to assign a label for how he felt, Sherlock would go with ‘asexual’. Or ‘aromantic asexual’, to be specific.

Throughout their adolescence, he and Mycroft had struggled with establishing friendships and more often than not sought one another’s company instead. His older brother’s aversion, his dislike for their peers was something Sherlock could actually comprehend but there was no denying that they’d managed to ostracise themselves in the process. Additionally, he often felt distanced, removed from those around him. He didn’t understand the giggles from the girls in class when certain boys walked past, the fidgeting of some boys when a certain girl spoke to them. Or when the pair was of the same sex, he’d seen similar behaviour - that had never been a problem to him, _ever_. It was as simple as this: Sherlock didn’t understand what ‘having a crush’ entailed – whatever it was, he certainly hadn’t experienced it, nor did he particularly want to. The whole process seemed tiresome, unnecessary and quite frankly, a waste of energy.

The Holmes boys’ reliance on one another, unacknowledged though it was, lessened as they reached adulthood, but one particular conversation stuck with him and their voices seemed to echo through the silent living room now. They’d been at the morgue and Sherlock had asked his older brother something that had been preying on his mind for a long while. An off handed, comment about Mycroft ‘being Mother’ in their childhood actually had a semblance of truth to it. There were some things Sherlock only felt safe asking his brother and so, he’d put forward this question, confident the man would have an answer, albeit a little cryptic. Mycroft Holmes wasn’t one to mince his words and that was something Sherlock could count on.

“Do you ever think there’s something wrong with us?”

The heavy silence before a stilted response had told him all that he needed to know. He too believed that caring wasn’t an advantage, but it wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to ponder that maybe, he cared differently and too little. He’d been called a freak, a sociopath - a psychopath on a few occasions - for as long as he could remember. There were only so many times he could brush those insults off. He wasn’t heartless, contrary to popular opinion. Yes, he was willing to admit that he was lacking in his understanding human emotions (expression too, was quite a task) but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel anything. Even _Sherlock Holmes_ knew there was a range of relationships beyond that of romantic attachment. Though it wasn’t mandatory, one could love a great many things other than people. He decided this moment was a good time as any to make these 2 lists, if only to remind and reassure himself of his humanity.

Mrs. Hudson was a steadfast pillar in his life, and Sherlock couldn’t deny that he’d be somewhat lost without her constant care. He let himself smile at the memories of her frantic mothering over him – she went beyond the duties of a housekeeper, that was for certain. The elderly woman’s motto worked in his favour. ‘ _Live and Let Live_ ’ was something he wished everyone had the sense to follow. Maybe then, they’d realise that it wasn’t any of their business, what he did with his time outside of solving cases. Sherlock had used the ‘ _married to my work_ ’ quip more often than he liked to admit. He’d done so with John too, on their first case. Even he knew that was an uncomfortable conversation and that the army doctor hadn’t quite known to make of the remark.

Sherlock didn’t understand this reaction, not that it was unique to John. Was his commitment to his profession a substitute for a partner? Of course not. Then why did it feel like an apology, the fact that he was wholly involved with work? And _why_ didn’t people leave it at that? Why did they show such a vested interest in him, only to dismiss his beliefs, telling him they knew him better than he knew himself? Sherlock shut his eyes, grip on his mug tightening just that bit more. Irritation and hurt welled up within him uncalled for so he steered himself away from the one question he couldn’t answer to safer ground.

Molly Hooper had been another constant and he’d hurt her over and over. Without meaning to at first, then simply because he didn’t know how _not_ to hurt her any less. It just didn’t make sense to him why he should be held accountable for the way _she_ felt about him. He’d tried to be a good friend, especially after that disastrous Christmas party, more considerate – as much as he was capable of - but he’d always let her down, some way or the other. He truly was sorry but eventually, he had to understand that there was nothing to be done about this. He loved her as a friend, no more, no less and neither of them could change this. Friends. People who actually liked him as he was. He had very few of these, most likely because he was quite unapproachable to begin with. However, it was undeniable that many who’d endeavoured to – strike up a friendship, that is – soon tired of him and simply gave up, calling him unbearable, stuck up and other things which he supposed were true. It’s just the more disrespectful terms that he’d learned to throw back out, deflect off of his armour and even use himself to act like he wasn’t bothered – deceive them all.

Inevitably, his thoughts shifted to Mary, more specifically his discovery of her identity or lack thereof. She’d shot him without flinching but even before the bullet had made contact with his torso, he'd felt an acute pain in his chest. When he’d recognised who the assailant was, only one thought prevailed: “ _How would John react to this ?_ ” Surely the awareness of his racing heartbeat, the fear, was proof of his being human?

Then came the spouses’ quarrel and he’d resorted to the well-worn label, trying to keep the derision out of his voice, replacing it with indifference. A quick, fleeting glance from Mary Watson, though, told him he hadn’t quite succeeded. Sherlock tried in vain to help John see reason, to not let his heart rule his head but the man seemed intent on doing exactly that. His demand for an answer was reasonable, he supposed, but to Sherlock, the finger was pointing in the wrong direction, and he made sure to point this out. Gradually, John had calmed down and it was only when order had been restored somewhat that he realised with unprecedented clarity that Mary had fast become part of his limited group of friends. That’s why he was trying to defend her. It wasn’t just because John cared about her, no. It was because he did _too_.

Above all were his parents. They had raised him, stood by his side all his life, protected him as much as they could, and their dynamic was something worth holding in high regard. He knew deep down that they loved him, no matter how much he left them flustered. The exasperation exhibited each time the Holmes family (Mycroft included) came together was partly pretend. These were the few times a year where they tolerated and even _complimented_ one another. It would be more than any of them could take till the next year rolled around and this arrangement worked perfectly well.

Then came the things that he loved doing, besides solving crimes and making deductions. For one, composing music on his violin. He found it tremendously relaxing and it was satisfying too, being able to create a piece of art with careful consideration. He enjoyed making serviettes, every now and then – who said the intricate designs were for celebrations alone? Of course, he’d undo them before a client came in, but he loved seeing the odd folded napkin on the mantlepiece or table. Then came an inexplicable fondness for the ‘funny little hat’ and his long coat, paired with the trusty blue scarf. They were his staple items of clothing and he felt quite bereft without them. Somewhere in his mind palace, tucked away, was the knowledge that they acted as something of a shield for the curly haired man from the intrusive, all too curious people around him.

The ringing of their doorbell pulled Sherlock out of his musings. It was then, as he heard Mrs. Hudson welcome Molly downstairs that he solved this rather unnecessary conundrum and arrived at the only possible conclusion. He was right and there was _nothing_ wrong with him, as many had insinuated time and again. He _wasn’t_ a freak for not wanting sex, not seeking that or romance, the furthest thing from it, in fact. He allowed himself a small smile, a whispered ‘ _yes_ ’ a smug ‘ _I told you so_ ’ to no one and everyone. This realisation was a birthday present of sorts. Though Sherlock found gifts and the celebration of this day frivolous, he allowed himself this one joy. The clarity with which the sentences repeated themselves sent an unknown emotion through the so called high functioning sociopath.

Romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people, isn’t required to complete me as a person. I’m whole just as I am.

**Author's Note:**

> If need be, you can contact me on Twitter: @/ aosdatcsriff


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